"The Fellowship of the Ring" Film Versions - Jacob's Thoughts

Per Ben's suggestion, I post now about the film versions of Fellowship of the Ring--both the 2001 Peter Jackson version that we've ragged on relentlessly throughout this blog, and the 1978 Ralph Bakshi animated version--before we continue on to The Two Towers.

The Jackson was a revisit for me, but I had never seen the Bakshi before.  As such, it intrigued me to track how much the Jackson is indebted to the Bakshi, viz: the massive data dump that opens each film (which I think Jackson succeeds at better than Bakshi, though both are still stupidly confusing to the uninitiated, to the point where I just wanted to shout at both a la Homer Simpson, "NEEERRRRRRD!!!"); also, the utter elision of The Old Forest chapters; Gollum's voice; the green cloaks; the Hobbits hiding under a tree root at the first appearance of the Black Rider, right down to the same camera angles; and of course the decision to portray 50+ years old Frodo Baggins as some sort of child.

The Bakshi version especially presents the Hobbits as, in effect,  the sort of goofy, naive adolescents that I can only assume the producers thought all LoTR fans must be like.  Baby-faced Elijah Wood looks positively adult compared to the children-Hobbits of Bakshi.

Also, I couldn't help but observe a curious note of homoeroticism about the Hobbits in both cinematic versions--recall the way it became a cliche to say Sam and Frodo were almost too friendly in the Jackson films; not to mention the almost feminine movements and giggly smiles of Bakshi's Hobbits (I can't get out of my mind the spazzy way Frodo first greets Gandalf).  These are intriguing choices given how often Frodo in the novel almost openly lusts after other men's wives (as Eric oft pointed out)--the Hobbits of the novels may be domestic, but that does not make them feminine or unmanly; they may be small, but that does not make them childish; they may be inexperienced, but that does not make them naive.  It's telling to me that male Hollywood producers so often subconsciously equate the former with the latter.

But now I've covered enough of how the two films are similar; now I want to track how they diverge.  For starters, though Bakshi's Hobbits still look like children to me, they don't exactly look human.  For a film that engages in so much rotoscoping, tracing human actors directly onto the animation, that is no mean feat.  The Hobbits' eyes are just a little too big, their general bodily proportions just a little too off, for them to just look like little human beings (like in the Jackson).  They are indeed some sort of totally different species in this film, which adds to the sense of otherworldiness about this space.  This is the sort of effect one can only accomplish in animation.

Bakshi's Nazgul, too, are more of a kind with the creeping, inhuman creatures described in the novels, as opposed to the more martial figures presented by Jackson.  This is not to claim one version as better than the other (I think both interpretations have their charms), but simply to observe another moment where animation allows for portrayals that one can't do with live actors.

This is not to claim myself a convert to the Bakshi; for though the many dreamlike, nay, nightmarish animated sequences were a-times genuinely inspired in my estimation, ultimately the film lacks a cohesion or comprehensibility for anyone who has never read the books before (and even for those of us who have).  In his attempts to adapt this massive novel, I think Bakshi finally fails; but at least he fails in interesting ways.  I can totally understand why this fascinating failure has such a cult following.

The film is also interesting in how it foreground the, well, campiness of this story!  LoTR really is sort of campy, isn't it; Elves and Wizards and Hobbits and Invisibility Rings--in its barest elements, this is a story that can invite its own kind of winking fun (Bakshi making Strider look like a He-Man extra certainly doesn't stop the campy feeling, either).  I do not mean this as a knock against the story, simply as another manner by which to approach it, as less a grave epic than as pulpy fun.

For campiness is most certainly not the M.O. of the Jackson films, is it.  From the opening shot to the last, you are meant to take this movie as seriously as possible.  Even in Galadriel's overly-dramatic scenes, I found it impossible to smirk, for Jackson's directing and Cate Blanchett's acting simply would not so permit me to do so.  For better or worse, the Jackson films demand that you take this story as grimly as possible. To quoth the Joker, why so serious.

Of course, that super-self-seriousness is helped by the quality acting, more important than any CGI.  There's Sir Ian McKellen most obviously; but also Viggo Mortenson, Bernard Hill, John Rys-Davies, Rudy (er, Sean Astin), Liz Taylor, and yes, even Orlando Bloom and Elijah Wood, all bring their A-Game to this film, to which I tip my hat.  New Zealand, likewise, is a character in this movie--and a good one, too.  Watching all these ringers run across this breathtaking landscape can make one utterly forget that this, perhaps, can also be approached as a campy piece of pulp fiction.

Have either of you guys rewatched either or both films yet?  What are your thoughts?

"The Breaking of the Fellowship" - Eric's Thoughts

So we've finally reached the end of the first book of the Lord of the Rings. I feel as though we've come a great journey just blogging about it. The experience really has been fun. I enjoyed reading Ben and Jacob's posts. Jacob of course is a literary scholar, and knows the proper terms for things, and Ben of course is a Tolkien scholar, who always adds a little Similarion backstory that us little people don't know.

This and Moria are the two best segments in the book. Boromir, an altogether flat character for most of the book, reveals himself to be the first to fall to the Ring, and also reveals depth that we haven't seen anywhere in the books so far. Maybe, he falls first because he's the most desperate to save his people. That makes his fall even more tragic. I didn't particularly mind his grand soliloquy like Ben did. When Boromir starts discussing how he will become a great leader and lead men to victory, it shows that the Ring draws out a person's wildest fantasies of what they could do with unlimited power. In fact, for us readers, his speech even seems comic, especially in light of how serious he's taking himself. I'm don't think that Galadriel necessarily put those thoughts in his head as perhaps merely teased out what he already felt? And what ruler wouldn't want more lands, to better serve his people?

I agree that Aragon, and the rest of the company, come off as a little bullheaded. They seem to be forgetting that the whole purpose of this expedition was because there was no other choice. Surely Aragon should have known that. Better to leave the Ring with Tom Bombadil than let it fester in the heart of Minas Tirith. But of course, it had to be that way to allow for the confrontation between Frodo and Boromir, which is one of the most intense scenes in the book.

I think that Ben and Jacob both really captured the highlights of this chapter, so I think I'll use this space to reflect on Fellowship as a whole.

The sense that I got from the reread was that there are some great scenes, but also a flawed early-middle portion where Tolkien doesn't really know where to take the story--the scenes with Tom Bombadil feel out of space, as does the scene where the Hobbits are attacked by ghosts and find their swords, and travel through the Old Forest. Let's look at the structure as a whole:

Bilbo's Party --> Gandalf Throwing Ring into Fire, Warning Frodo --> Frodo Leaving with Hobbits, including Farmer Maggot --> Black Riders sniffing, and elves --> Appearance of Merry and the Conspiracy --> Old Forest, Bombadil, Wraiths --> Bree --> Flight with Strider and Weathertop, and Frodo getting stabbed --> The River Crossing --> Rivendel, rest chapters --> Traveling to Cadharas, getting stuck on the Mountain --> Moria --> Lorien and the Elves, and Galadriel --> More Elves and Gifts from Lorien --> a Trip down a River --> and Boromir's Fall and Frodo and Sam Running off

I might be missing something, but I think that about covers it. Overall, the drag chapters, for me at least, seem to occur when Frodo is waiting around early on, some of the early travels of the Hobbits, the three terrible chapters of which you know I speak, Lorien, Farewell to Lorien, and the Great River.

Still, at this point in the book I don't really have a good sense of character. I think a big part of this is Tolkien's choice of omniscient narrator, where point of view shifts interchangeably without pattern in any given chapter. As a result, we are not left with a single character to identify with, do not know his thoughts, and therefore they feel flat. As a fun writing exercise, maybe when Lord of the Rings becomes public domain someone could rewrite it from the point of view of a particular character for each chapter, but still keep to the main narrative. Jacob? Ben? You want to try?

Overall, in writing these blog posts, I really feel like I've accomplished something. And yet, suddenly thinking that there are TWO MORE BOOKS of similar length, I feel terror just as Frodo does. There are a daunting number of chapters yet to blog about.

Onward we go!

"The Great River" - Eric's Thoughts

There was a river in this chapter. They go down it.

Enough said, on to blogging the Breaking of the Fellowship!

"The Breaking of the Fellowship" - Ben's Thoughts

The Fellowship breaks! I guess. This chapter is only Part 1 of 2, the cliffhanger to be resolved next week. Or next book. There's a lot to like about this chapter, but also a lot that irks me. It's an imperfect ending to the best book (in my humble opinion) of the trilogy.

First, as Jacob dealt with in depth, Boromir's "betrayal." Part of me thinks that his snap with reality comes out of left field, while part of me thinks that Tolkien very carefully set it up. Boromir has been very interested in Frodo for several chapters now, ever since his encounter with Galadriel's "test" in Lorien, and there have been several beats throughout these chapters that indicate that Something Is Up with our favorite Gondorian (Gondor-man?) However, the depth of Boromir's hubris just explodes forth in this chapter in a way that wasn't broadcast previously. I mean, Boromir has always been arrogant -- for example, his touting the strength of arms of Men at the Council of Elrond, and subtly disparaging the other races in the struggle through the snow at Caradhras. But this, speaking of his desire to lord it over nations and become a benevolent king -- never mind that his dad, the Steward of Gondor, is the current ruler of the land -- seems to stem directly from what Galadriel put into his head. That... bothers me, on some level, that such dangerous ideas are implied to have come from Galadriel. Frodo thinks that the evil of the Ring is already working among the company, but we have no proof that Boromir's delusions came from the Ring at all! A frustrating oversight on Tolkien's part.

I don't want to turn this into a book-movie comparison, but since this chapter is one of the few things that Peter Jackson et al really get right about the movie "Fellowship," I am going to go into some detail about my thoughts. Boromir's character is given far more opportunity in the movie than he is in the books. The scene on the mountain, where Boromir handles the Ring that has fallen off of Frodo's neck, is a masterpiece of suspense, with Aragorn's hand gripping his sword hidden behind Frodo's body. It also moves Boromir's speech about "so much fear and doubt" stemming from "such a little thing" to the mountainside, which serves to preface his fascination with the Ring in particular that develops throughout the Quest. Then, later, when Galadriel comments that "the Quest stands upon the edge of a knife," we know she is testing Boromir, who shudders in shame at what he is made to consider. Finally, in the film, Boromir does not rant about becoming a king or commander of armies -- the subtext may be implied, but he speaks to Frodo only about the Ring being the salvation of Gondor. All of this rings true far better than Boromir's sudden outbursts in the original text. Additionally, because he is set up in the second half of the film as the anti-Aragorn, the failed version of the future king, his death is all the more tragic in comparison. I'll talk more about how that death thematically belongs in this book in Chapter 1 of "Two Towers."

Aragorn does not come off well in this chapter, I think. Instead of providing advice or counsel to Frodo, he calls a public meeting, does not voice opinion, and tells Frodo that he must decide what to do. His words do not specify whether Frodo's decision is binding on the entire company, or just on Frodo himself. The far better thing to say would be that he would follow Frodo even to Mordor, if that was his choice, and then send him off to decide. Tolkien's version of Aragorn is extremely reluctant to go to Mordor, and will not voice any support of that idea. Even in private, to the other members of the Fellowship, his skepticism is clear, and he states that he would only wish to have Gimli and himself (and, he adds grudgingly, Sam) accompany Frodo if he ultimately chooses the Eastern road. This Aragorn thinks the eastward road is hopeless. This Aragorn wants to visit Minas Tirith and serve her once more before the end. This Aragorn has had no hope since the fall of Gandalf. A depressing mindset, indeed.

The attitude of the other members of the Fellowship is no better, unfortunately. Gimli and Legolas both indicate their preference of Minas Tirith. Are they just that scared to pursue the eastern road? Do they just not believe that it is possible to get unnoticed to Mount Doom without the help of an army? Pippin and Merry, as well, reveal their utter cluelessness, and Merry foolishly babbles about how they didn't understand that the quest that involved going to Mordor would actually lead them anywhere near Mordor. No wonder Boromir has such little faith in "halflings" if he's been hanging around these two nitwits.

The most powerful moment in this chapter, in my mind, is Frodo's vision on top of Amon Hen. It is clear that this is a place where a vision will unfold only in proportion to the power and ability of the person seeking, or sitting, upon the chair. Frodo is empowered by the Ring; the vision that unfolds is all-encompassing because he is embued with a portion of the power of Sauron himself. He sees nations mustering armies; he sees as far north as Mirkwood and as far south as Harad; he provides us with our first glimpse of the faded splendor of Minas Tirith; and, most horribly, he shows us for the first time the stronghold of the Enemy, revealing in some small measure exactly why Aragorn feels so hopeless about the odds of the Quest succeeding. I like the extra-physical qualities of the Eye of Sauron, as well; far from being a visible glaring eye perched on top of Barad-dur like a lighthouse, this Eye is percieved and felt rather than seen; Frodo's presence is almost recognized and barely missed by a malevolent, and wholly unseen force. Very creepy; very effective prose. Frodo's vision rolls back the "fog of war," as it were, covering the nations of Middle-earth and sets up the points of conflict of the next two books: Rohan, Orthanc, Minas Tirith, Minas Morgul, Mount Doom itself. Descriptions like that are how one ends the first book in a trilogy.

Finally, a word about the stalwart hero of the chapter: Samwise Gamgee. Of all the Company, he is the one who knows Frodo best, and thus is the one that understands his mind the most completely. He sees almost immediately that Frodo will try to go to Mordor alone, and he is the one to point out the obvious, that the rest of the Company is too deluded (or idiotic, in the case of the brainless Merry and Pippin) to see -- that Minas Tirith is a useless dead end for the Ringbearer. Aragorn recognizes this point, as he concedes that Denethor could not hope to hold back Sauron if Elrond couldn't, but he doesn't take the next logical leap that the only viable option for Middle-earth is to go east, not west.

No, it falls to Sam to raise the issue, urge the Company into action to find Frodo after they've all been sitting around like lumps dreading his return and choice, and to keep his head and return to the river to catch Frodo in the act of watercraft theft. Frodo's resistance to Sam's company on the dangerous journey is fairly nonexistent, and Sam even provides a ray of sunshine to Frodo's belief that they'll never see the other members of the Fellowship again: " 'Yet we may, Mr Frodo. We may.' " Apparently Frodo subscribes to the Aragornian brand of hopelessness, despite realizing that Minas Tirith is a fools choice, but Sam maintains his sunny disposition to the very end.

I have to approve of Tolkien's choice to put Frodo and Sam's departure at the very end of this book, while frowning at his inability to put Boromir's death here where it belongs. More on that and how Aragorn is completely shafted, character-development-wise, in the first post on "Two Towers." In the meantime, how about a movie rewatch blog post from each of us before we launch into the next book? Surely we all have access to a copy of Mr Jackson's "Fellowship"? Or what about the Ralph Bakshi, while we're at it? Anyone? Anyone?

"Farewell to Lórien" - Eric's Thoughts

I really liked this chapter when I was younger. For me, part of the fun of reading about adventures is not only seeing new places, but also vicariously acquiring loot. Really adventures are often about the loot, and gaining artifacts or mastery of self that allow progression into the next stage of the adventure. The Brothers Grimm are a classic example of this. In those stories, the pauper or prince would acquire a magical item that allows justice to be done in the world, and a wrong righted. In the Grimm stories, heroes are given a tablecloth that magically provides food for those that are starving, guns that never miss, and bags where men with sticks jump out to beat on the bad guys. When I read these stories, I felt like I too had acquired something magical and used it to right a wrong.

We like this archetype because the stories illustrate the principle that the good man will acquire the artifact that will allow good to triumph over evil. We like this archetype because so often in real life evil very often triumphs over good. This is why stories like Game of Thrones upset us so much. Because we recognize that they mirror reality much more than the fairy tales of magical artifacts: good men die, and evil men triumph and rule. North Korea is a current example of a regime where pure evil is what controls. And there are many, and have been many. I wonder how many good regimes have existed in proportion to bad ones? The United States has its problems, but for the most parts citizens are allowed to live their lives without fear of execution. In terms of human history, I suspect that this is a relatively new phenomenon, and that the number of evil regimes far, far outweighs the number of good.

The gifts in this chapter are not quite as fun as some of the ones in Brothers Grimm. Notably Frodo gets a vial of light that will serve him later against the giant spider. Sam gets a bit of earth (and rope). Merry and Pippin get belts, as does Boromir. Aragon gets a sheath. Most surprisingly, the wafer bread they get proves to be the most valuable, as Frodo and Sam would not have survived Mordor without it.

Gimli asks for a piece of hair, which draws out his character nicely. So for Gimli (hair) and Sam (earth for gardening and rope), the gift giving serves the dual role of giving a boon and developing character. What's interesting is that the "character-development" gifts serve no purpose as to the adventure. So this is a different take than the utility of the gifts in Grimm, where a gift given will undoubtedly serve a useful purpose later on in the story, helping the hero triumph. Rather, these gifts are keepsakes for after the war, and allow for the forging of new friendships (dwarves and elves) and keeping a piece of Lorien in the Shire. 

The belts, of course, are of no utility in the adventure (unless the belts allow them to be recognized as "elf-friend," which I do not remember if they do), and no utility in character development. The belts rather are just gifts that allow for the other gifts to be accented. At this point Merry and Pippin and even Boromir are all very flat characters, and so perhaps there is some wisdom in giving them flat gifts as well, so as not to distract from the gifts of significance. I dunno.

Gifts are also a part of the Campbellian cycle. Frodo has been given the vial that will allow him and Sam to defeat the spider. So despite the interesting twist that some gifts will be useful after victory has been achieved, the gift-giving still somewhat falls in line with classical storytelling methods.

"The Great River" - Ben's Thoughts

I always loved this chapter when I read it growing up. The Fellowship on a road trip! What could be better! Road trips were always my favorite when I was young, because I got to lay down in the back seat without a seat belt and take off my shoes (something that was usually forbidden in the car) and the warm sun would be shining in through the windows and often we would stop at a Dairy Queen and get Blizzards, and I would lay down back there and get to read for something like 5 hours straight… Believe me, it was heaven for the little bibliophile that I was. When I got to college and my love of books was partially translated into a love for music, and I got my own car -- well, you can imagine that trips from Dallas to Provo were no burden but rather a sheer joy. (Of course, after 10 or so of those 22-hour road trips, the joy of it tends to eke away a little bit. But no matter.) I think something of that joy translated into my perception of "The Great River." The Fellowship finds itself in a very liminal state, neither here nor there, neither committing to the dangers and dread of the east bank of the river, nor the uncomfortable finality of the west bank and its final destination of Minas Tirith.

Quite a large chunk of this chapter is description of scenery, and I found myself enraptured this time around. Descriptions like this are marvelously evocative:

"Soon the River broadened and grew more shallow; long stony beaches lay upon the east, and there were gravel-shoals in the water, so that careful steering was needed. The Brown Lands rose into bleak wolds, over which flowed a chill air from the East. On the other side the meads had become rolling downs of withered grass amidst a land of fen and tussock." [A wold is an elevated stand of trees, in case you were wondering.]

Although the scenery is bleak, it's a vista that I would love to experience firsthand. The trip down the river, culminating in the breathtaking float-by of the Argonath, that culminates in the beautiful expanse of the river bisected by the island, with the three majestic mountains in the distance and the sound of the falls dominating everything… wow. That sounds magnificent. You have to hand it to Tolkien -- he really visualized his locales and this one especially sprung to life for me as a place that I'd want to visit. No man has set foot upon (what I assume is the peak) of Tol Brandir? Sign me up. I'll be the first. I'd take it as a challenge.

I cannot identify at all with Sam's terror at the sight of the Argonath and the dark chasm leading to the lake. I'm much more in line with Aragorn, standing tall with eyes shining, just drinking it all in. (More on Aragorn's dilemma in a minute.) Tolkien seems to me very much divided between a hopeless homebody (not quite an agoraphobe), like Sam, and someone who was desperate to get out and see things that awed and inspired in the natural world in which we live, like Bilbo at the beginning of The Hobbit when the Dwarves' song awakens within him a seed of excitement and a desire to see the mountains and the gold and the dragon. I think something of this duality exists in us all; I myself love comfortable evenings relaxing on the couch, reading to myself or aloud to my wife, but at the same time there is within me a fierce longing for the mountains or the sea. For years I believed that this longing was for the mountains and the mountains alone, but I've been to the ocean twice in the last two years, on beaches on two oceans on practically opposite ends of the United States, and something of that longing and wonder at the majesty of the fathomless depths of the sea, with the waves crashing against one's legs and the birds wheeling overhead, has wormed its way inside me as well. O the restrictions of the modern life! (The great comfort, and the great restrictions.) It's unfortunate that responsibility and routine cannot be abandoned at a moment's notice to go haring off into the Wild, and then lay there until such time that a person wishes to return to the comfort of routine! The freedom to do that comes, unfortunately, only with money -- which I have in short supply at the moment, not sure about everyone else. One day, perhaps, I'll be able to visit the equivalent of the Falls of Rauros, or the Argonath, or the hills of Amon Hen and Amon Lhaw. Mark my words.

Jacob's already written very eloquently on the complexity of Gollum's character, and I'm sure I'll be diving into it a bit more as well in Book IV. One of the things I wished to muse about was the Nazgûl -- what exactly is it trying to do here? It seems clear that the orcs have set something of a trap for the Fellowship on the east bank, just before the rapids of Sarn Gebir, and that their hope was that the peril of the rapids would push the Company onto the east bank and into their waiting arms. First, how did they know that the Company was going to pass that way? Did Gollum really tell them? I find that hard to believe -- no matter what Aragorn thinks, I don't believe that Gollum would willingly rat on the Fellowship, because he wants the Ring for himself, not for Sauron. Neither do I think that the orcs (and heaven forbid, Sauron through the Nazgûl) would just let Gollum waltz back to his little log in the river after getting his hands on him again. Sauron tends to overlook the little things, but I doubt he'd miss a detail like that this late in the game. So perhaps these were just patrolling orcs who happened to be at the right place at the right time?

Likewise, the Nazgûl's M.O. at this point confuses me. I know Sauron was waiting to unleash the Ringwraiths on their new flying mounts until later; indeed, the next time we will encounter a flying Nazgûl will be weeks later in LOTR-time, at the very end of Book III. So what is this one doing, soaring over the river in range of Legolas' Elven-bow? (I can just see the orcs snickering behind their hands at the sodden Ringwraith dragging itself out of the river after getting shot down, too.) Somehow I have to believe this was an attempt at a northern incursion into Rohan, rather than a concerted effort to snare the Ring-bearer. Although -- the orcs of the Eye that pop up at the end of the book and kidnap Pippin and Merry, along with Saruman's Uruk-hai, were searching for hobbits, so maybe I'm way off base. It just seems like shoddy planning, with little hope of success on the bad guys' part.

Finally, Aragorn. The narrator has not referred to him as "Strider" in some time, since the beginning of Book II if I remember correctly, but here it tosses off all pretense that this figure is anything but a kingly one. "In the stern sat Aragorn son of Arathorn, proud and erect, guiding the boat with skilful strokes; his hood was cast back, and his dark hair was blowing in the wind, a light was in his eyes: a king returning from exile to his own land." But this very transformation intensifies Aragorn's dilemma -- as a returning king, he now feels obligated to return to "Minas Anor" (even more tellingly, he calls the city by its ancient name, "The Tower of the Sun," signifying its beauty and power, rather than by its current name, "The Tower of Guard," reflecting its current status as capitol of a nation at war. Aragorn is really reaching to evoke the past glories of Gondor, for when he served Ecthelion in years past, the city was already titled "Minas Tirith." Long parenthetical ended.) You can feel the narrative building towards something powerful with Aragorn's choice -- whether or not Tolkien delivers on what is simmering in the pot here is a question I'll leave for the next chapter.

"The Breaking of the Fellowship" - Jacob's Thoughts

Once again, I find myself at an impasse--and like Frodo momentarily trapped in indecision between letting the awful eye of Sauron fall upon him or taking off the Ring at once (a wonderful bit of foreshadowing of Return of the King, by the way), I hesitate between waiting for my friends Ben and Eric to catch up with me so that we can finish the The Fellowship of the Ring together, or give into temptation and finish the novel now, then wait for you both to catch up before starting The Two Towers.

I give into temptation--I post my review now.  May Frodo have stronger will-power than me.

It's just that it's taken us so long to finish this book--and as real life (bar exams and new jobs, new babies, grad school, ex-girlfriends and family drama) has persistently disrupted our respective readings, it's almost as though this months-long journey of the Fellowship has occurred in real time.  I almost prefer it that way, as though we have felt the full weight of these travails, both on the pages and in our own lives.

But enough with the melodramatics--now that I stand at the precipice overlooking Minus Tirith and Mordor, where do I even start?  For starters I suppose, I'd forgotten that the action-packed ending of the first film doesn't actually occur until chapter 1 of The Two Towers.  On the one hand, this rendered the finale a bit anti-climactic; but on the other hand, that narrative understatement bewrays a quiet confidence on Tolkien's part, one that goes right back to that most innocuous of first lines "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday..."

Tolkien knows (as Peter Jackson didn't) that he does not need to beat you over the head with a hammer of massive set pieces, that the scope and stakes of this story are sufficiently epic enough to over-awe you in even in its most intimate moments.  Indeed, simply sending these two little "half-lings" alone into the Land of Shadows--particularly two as comically-unprepared as we've repeatedly seen throughout this novel--is more than enough of an edge-of-your-seat cliffhanger.  "No, you fools, don't go alone!" we almost want to shout at Sam and Frodo, "You two schmucks were almost killed by the Old Forest for crying out loud!"  Oh, Sam and Frodo splitting off from the actual competent travelers just multiplied the danger by full degrees of magnitude!  Clever move, Tolkien.

Furthermore, this understated ending keeps the focus of the narrative squarely not on empty and bombastic action sequences, but upon the characters, upon interpersonal connection, as we see Frodo and Sam's relationship become something more than mere Master/Servant, but something approximating true friendship.  That way, we feel real investment in these people, so that there is a stronger sense of stakes when the action actually begins.

But with all due respect to Frodo and Sam, you know who actually touched me the most in this chapter?  Borimor.  Poor Borimor.  Not gonna lie, I honestly felt for him.

We hardly even knew him--and I'm willing to assume that that opacity was intentional on Tolkien's part, so that Borimor's sudden temptations hit the reader as abruptly as they did Frodo.  But this isn't merely The Temptation of the Frodo, no--in just a couple pages, we learn more about Borimor's character than we did the whole rest of Book II combined--we learn both his pride and his pitifulness, of both his deceptive kindness and his true belief in his cause, of both his thirst for power and the sad vulnerability that fuels it. Honest to goodness, though I felt for Frodo and his horrid Sophie's Choice made all the harder by Borimor's temptations, I actually felt all the worse for Borimor when he broke down in tears and begged forgiveness of the empty air.  Nearly wept myself.  For reals.

For it would be easy to classify Borimor as a sort of tempter-figure, a Satan testing our Christ-Frodo in the desert.  But Tolkien's master-stroke is that he reminds us that we already have a Satan-figure in Sauron; Borimor, poor Borimor, is not a tempter, but just a man, one with hopes and dreams and doubts and fears, who nonetheless almost ruined everything in one moment of passion and weakness.

Just like the rest of us often do.

May we never be like Borimor, poor Borimor, even as we recall all the times we have been.  It is with genuine sadness that I realize I will hardly get to know him more.

Until The Two Towers, gentlemen.

"The Great River" - Jacob's Thoughts

[Properly, those mega-statues should be holding axes, not swords.]

Is there a creature more forlorn in fiction than Gollum?

Milton's Satan at least got the dignity of deserving his own Fall, and legions of loyal fallen angels to boot; Dickensian orphans are at least unambiguous objects of pity and motivators to social action; same with Faulkner and Caldwells' desperately poor Southerners; Poe's various grotesques at least encounter passionate sublimity in their madness; Joyce's cockulded Leopold Bloom suffers mere mediocrity and still gets a rich interior life; Hemingway's Jake Barnes still has his stoic pride; Vonnegut's Billy Pilgrim gets to travel with space aliens and sleep with models; the drug-addled lowlifes of Burroughs' The Naked Lunch still become objects of fascination in their repulsion; Marvin the paranoid android gets some funny lines at least; and Gil from the Simpsons is at least harmless.

But Gollum, poor Gollum!  The more I read and the more I experience, the more I appreciate Tolkien's most pathetic of characters.  When I was in Puerto Rico, you see, I passed by the heroin addicts lurking under bridges at night, with the holed-spoons and cut soda-can lids scattered about to testify of their self-destruction.  In the broad daylight, they stumbled about half-wake, half-dead, in the closest approximation of a zombie we have in reality.  They subsisted mainly on the mangos that fell to the sidewalk.  Once I was passing one on my bike, when he suddenly veered left such that his head collided directly into my shoulder at full speed.  I stopped immediately to apologize and see if he was hurt, but he kept stumbling away, oblivious.  In the thrall of their precious, they had been deadened to all else save the spell of their addiction.  What more potent analog can Gollum have?  That is, Gollum is so incredible precisely because he is so real.

Oh, but Gollum's affliction is so much worse than the addict's!  At least in heroin, you eventually die from it, and are thus liberated from it, sooner than later.  I don't write that flippantly: I recently learned a former roommate of mine was killed a year ago by his alcoholism.  He was only 30-something.  The question can be legitimately asked, what could possibly be worse than a drug that kills someone so young and strong?  The answer is just that much more horrifying: how about a drug that never lets you die, never lets you find freedom even in death, one that makes you outlive all your friends and never win new ones, one that keeps you hopelessly dependent on it from ages to ages, forever filled with self-loathing and shame, pitiless and un-pitiable?

And worse still: a drug you can never quit, but which can quit you?  It's one thing for a heroin addict to run out of heroin; it's quite another for the heroin to cold-shoulder you and leave you for another.  I, like most folks, have some experience in spurned love, in the intense hatred and love one can feel for the once-beloved.  But even I have never had it near as bad as Gollum, poor Gollum, who spends years--nay decades--suffering the unspeakable tortures of Mordor and the deprivations of the wilderness, without friend or consolation in the world, all to get one more sweet, sweet hit from that Precious that willfully scorned him, one that he does not deserve nor does it deserve him. 

We'd feel for him, we really would, we'd almost make a Heathcliffe or some Byronic hero out of him, if he wasn't so absolutely pitiful and petty and pathetic--but even then, we would care for him if he wasn't so filled with murderous rage.  Aragorn says he would like to get his hands on Gollum's throat, and we are not made to feel like he was out of line to say that. 

This is all a long-winded, roundabout way of emphasizing what a fascinating character Tolkien has fashioned in Gollum.  I likewise admire Tolkien's restraint in taking this long to finally bring him and Frodo face to face!  This is the first moment, I think, that the reader begins to get a sense of the full scope that Gollum will play in The Two Towers.  Such is Tolkien's careful craft that we hadn't even realized that Tolkien had been building up to this moment!  So distracted had we been by Sauron, Dark Riders, orcs and Balrogs, that we kept forgetting that there was a whole different shark, independent of the machinations of Mordor, that had been circling in on them. 

I think what I admire most about Gollum is how Tolkien so willingly throws a wrench into his own narrative!  Sans Gollum, this quest is a pretty straightforward account of good vs evil, of Evil Empires and Rebel Alliances and so forth.  But with Gollum, there is an X-factor, the unpredictable extra variable, that keeps everything so delightfully off-kilter. If he threatens to throw off-balance our heroes, well, he threatens the same to Mordor (as we well know from Return of the King)!  With Gollum around, we can no longer just keep displacing our own potential for evil onto some distant, abstract Sauron, but must confront that same capacity for sin within ourselves--as well as both his and our capacity for redemption, and how difficult redemption can actually be. In Gollum, Tolkien will force us to confront the fact that even someone so utterly devoid of any virtue as Gollum still has value, still deserves our love and care--not for his utility, no, but simply because he is alive, a fellow living being!

Now our reductive  good-vs-evil binary has been upset; now our simplistic morality tale has been complicated in genuinely interesting ways.  It wasn't until "The Great River" that I really considered the brilliance of Gollum, who really just might be the most completely forlorn character in fiction.

I've already written too much, so I'll leave all the other wonderful elements in this chapter--the Elves' sense of rippling time, the haunting winter atmosphere, the striking vista of Argonath in the mists, the sudden transformation of our affable Strider into Aragorn, the once and future King--to Ben and Eric.  I'll just finish on one more moment of admiration: I appreciate how Tolkien doesn't hold our hands with the re-introduction of the Nazgul.  Legolas shoots down some dark thing that "stains" the night sky (Tolkien says the sky was "clean" again once it fell), and Frodo only needs to feel a familiar pain in his shoulder, and Gimli mutter something about Mordor, for us to know exactly what it was.  In a sense, Legolas's arrow-shot doubles as Tolkien's warning shot: far larger things are afoot now, and if you thought the darkness was dangerous in this book, well, just you wait till The Two Towers!  It is a wonderful (if overly literal) bit of foreshadowing.

And now, onward to the final chapter!  Gentlemen, we are almost done with The Fellowship of the Ring, and then to The Two Towers!

"The Mirror of Galadriel" - Eric's Thoughts

This is a chapter about temptation. In this chapter, the Lady Galadriel is offered a choice between preservation and destruction. The only price? That she claims a magical artifact that she knows will corrupt her and turn her into the very evil she is fighting. Galadriel knows that if she accepts this boon, she will fall.

I wonder if anyone considers considers themselves evil. I wonder if even Sauron does. Certainly people can admit they've done evil things. But I wonder if, in the real world, there's a single stereotypical James Bond villain who rubs his hands maniacally and cackles when the hero is cast into a tank of sharks. I suspect the truth is more complicated. In the real world, the Saurons think they're okay guys, not James Bond villains.

Lacking a concrete villain, it's difficult to know what Sauron has become, and why. (Perhaps you can fill the gaps with backstory, Ben. I don't remember how/why Sauron became evil, because if I remember he was a good guy too once.) What exactly does the Ring do to someone? For Sauron, it was an extension of himself -- he poured his own power into the Ring when forging it. That means that he had to become evil before making evil, right? Couldn't the good guys, then, have been able to craft another Ring of Power to defend against the One Ring? One that wasn't evil?

The real question is why is corruption inevitable from this Ring. The classic explanations of the Ring theme is that absolute power corrupts absolutely, and that power is a form of drug addiction. The ring is described as a tool for the domination of others. This means that thematically we are dealing with a James Bond villain -- one that merely wants to conquer the world for the sake of conquering it. Maybe Sauron was just insecure and wanted to prove something to himself -- and everyone else?? Maybe he was a psychopath???

Again, all of this is just speculation because at this point we don't really know what Sauron is, other than an Eye. Sauron himself is merely an idea, while the fruits of the idea are manifested in grotesque orcs and goblins, his servants.

Galadriel -- at this point we only know she is pretty, and counsels Celeborn to take back fast spoken words of critique against the Dwarf. She admits that she considered taking the Ring by force from Frodo.

Sauron, then, as long as the ring lasts, exists as the ultimate extension of evil -- one that turns friends against each other. Yet when the Ring is destroyed at the end of the book, assuredly evil is not destroyed. Saruman and his orcs are still chopping up the Shire, and assuredly more evil will follow in the years to come in Middle Earth. The Ring is not the root of all evil, clearly.

So then what is this Ring?

Unfortunately the answer evades me. Except to say that perhaps it is merely a storytelling device, a McGuffin, that allows the characters to have a quest. Perhaps all of the prior analyses of what the Ring is are wrong, and it is what it is -- a Ring created by an evil spirit that wreaks mischief does as the spirit does. I know it's not as poetic, but perhaps the Ring doesn't bring out the worst in us? Perhaps the Ring isn't a metaphor for power at all, but is -- dum dum dum -- just a Ring?

What's interesting is that Galadriel says that in order for Frodo to read her mind is that he will have to grow in power, and train himself in the domination of others. That means that Frodo has a choice, in a sense, to avoid the Ring's power. But then why does he fall under it's spell in the end? Does that mean that no one can escape from the Ring? If cute little Frodo can't, surely very few (if any) of us can.

And for Galadriel, she passes the test of the Ring, and decides to leave it all behind, hopefully for better things in the life to come. And yet in her choice she does not sound certain that it is the right choice, and that is not a comforting thought.

This is not a happy chapter.

"Farewell to Lórien" - Ben's Thoughts

There's not too much to be said about this chapter that Jacob hasn't already said. It's certainly a chapter of transition. You can almost feel Tolkien trying to consolidate Lórien into two chapters, and failing miserably as he simply had too much worldbuilding and important details to throw in that wouldn't fit in a smaller space. Tolkien, like so many Tolkien fanboys and girls, is all about the Elves, and here the Professor relishes spending a little longer in the Elvish kingdom than might be strictly necessary from a narrative standpoint.

Nevertheless, there are some real gems in this chapter. I particularly like the theme of Aragorn's indecision coming to the forefront. I know this plot thread ends with a whimper, not a bang, at the beginning of "Two Towers," but it's fascinating while it lives with us and I'll be talking about it a lot more in "The Breaking of the Fellowship" still to come. But I can just relate so completely to Aragorn's dilemma here -- torn between two paths, and confronted with a choice between what he wants and what he feels is right. On the one hand, he wants to go to Minas Tirith, to help his people in their hour of greatest need. But on the other hand, he believes it to be his duty, as leader of the Fellowship, to go to Mordor with Frodo -- a path that, I believe, Aragorn thinks is doomed to failure and destruction. "We must go on without hope" -- the line from "Lothlórien" -- very much still embodies Aragorn's mentality at this point. He still doesn't believe that Sauron can be defeated, especially after the fall of Gandalf; instead he wants to make the most of a hopeless situation and be with his people as they fall under the shadow.

What a Sophie's choice this is! Aragorn has been preparing, or at least expecting, his whole life to return to Gondor, reveal himself as the heir of Isildur, and assume some kind of leadership role in the defense against Mordor (although, since he knows Denethor personally from years of service to Denethor's father Ecthelion, he probably should expect that coming back to Minas Tirith with Boromir will not be all roses and moonbeams). And here, suddenly, Aragorn is thrust into a position of leadership of the Company that he never expected to have to bear -- a role that he had assumed Gandalf would carry forward.

I think in our lives, very frequently we are presented with situations we never expected ourselves to be in. Often in those moments we lament that such a choice has been placed before us, between what we know to be right and what we want to do. But those are the moments when I feel like we develop true character. Aragorn is lucky that he gets all these weeks in Lórien and on the River to mull over his ultimate decision -- often we don't have that luxury.

Now I'd like to spend a few words on Galadriel and the Elves' obsession and terror of the Sea and their return to Valinor. The two songs that Galadriel sings in this chapter are about Valinor and her thoughts about her inevitable return, which of course takes place at the end of "Return of the King." Of note is that Galadriel was born in Valinor; she decided to accompany Fëanor and her father Finarfin to Middle-Earth even though she did not feel like she was bound to the Fëanor's quest to recover the Silmarils like her kin did. According to The Silmarillion, she swore no oaths about the Silmarils; instead the words of Fëanor about the beauty and wild of Middle-earth kindled a strong desire in her to see those lands and one day rule a kingdom of her own. Tolkien left conflicting accounts of why Galadriel stayed in Middle-earth after Morgoth was defeated; one account says that she was not permitted to return, while another says she was given the opportunity to return but refused, self-exiling herself in Middle-earth.

This by itself hints at Galadriel's conflicted view of Valinor. It is her birthplace, a place where she would be welcomed home by her father Finarfin (who decided to ultimately stay in Valinor). But at the same time, going to Valinor would mean renouncing both the beauty and the power she enjoyed in Middle-earth. I dealt with her choice to give up her power in my thoughts on "Mirror"; here I'll touch on the decision to give up the beauty of Middle-earth, which goes hand in hand with Valinor as an analogue for death and the afterlife.

The rank and file Elf, as Haldir revealed in this chapter, knows little or nothing about Valinor (especially the Elves not of Noldorin descent) -- indeed, it's almost ironic to see everyone describing Lórien as the fairest place on earth when Galadriel has clear knowledge of a place far more enchanting. Galadriel, with her intimate personal knowledge of Valinor, seems full of trepidation at the thought of returning. She is recognizant of its beauty ("I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew . . . And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden tree") which surely must be at the very least the equal of the beauty of Lórien ("Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore / And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor"), and yet she is not anxious to return (the second song refers to "Valimar" as "lost", and Galadriel questions "What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?") despite the fading treasures of Middle-earth ("While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears").

Of course all this closely mirrors our journey through life and our thoughts about the afterlife. This life is full of beauty ("the golden elanor"; "Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees!") and sorrow ("the Elven-tears"), but it's all we know, for the moment. But we can practically feel our life slipping away from us, year by year, day by day ("The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away"), despite our best efforts to cling to the past and present ("Who now shall refill the cup for me?") What can we do? Many of us choose to hope for something more beyond this life ("Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon . . . by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree"; ". . . sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly") that provides us with a way of living that points us towards an otherworldly goal. That hope is both beautiful ("I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew") and terrifying ("what ship would come to me, / What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?"; "Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar! Farewell!").

Such belief is conflicting and wonderful and terrible. Kind of like life… conflicting and wonderful and terrible. Sounds to me like Tolkien uses Galadriel to refer obliquely to this universal human condition.

"The Mirror of Galadriel" - Ben's Thoughts

I don't know if I've ever really known what to make of these Lothlórien chapters. In some ways, they're foundational for what comes after, with respect to the dynamic of the members of the Fellowship and the choices Aragorn has to make (and is conveniently excused from making) later in LOTR. But in other ways, they're extremely confusing. Galadriel is just such an enigmatic character, so distant and remote compared to our narrators the Hobbits, that her appearances feel almost disturbing.

Within Tolkien's mythos, Galadriel is probably the oldest Elf in Middle-earth (except for Círdan). She was born in Valinor and came to Middle-earth before the First Age of the Sun, with Feänor and the hosts of the Noldor. She is the daughter of Finarfin, who was the brother of Feänor and later the High King of the Elves. Although she was overshadowed by the shenanigans of the sons of Feänor in The Silmarillion, she was a major figure in the wars of the Second and Third Ages. In these chapters, she completely overshadows her soft-spoken husband Celeborn, who is typically described as a "kinsman of Thingol of Doriath" (which makes him a Sindarin Elf, and thus not really the equal of Galadriel's Noldorin heritage and power). Interestingly, Galadriel says that she passed over the mountains, likely meaning the Blue Mountains of Beleriand, before the fall of Nargothrond or Gondolin. Checking my sources, it seems that Tolkien has Galadriel and Celeborn espousing the belief that the War of the Jewels, fought against Sauron's former master Morgoth, was hopeless and thus they did not participate in the War of Wrath in which the Valar finally destroyed Morgoth's power in the North (and the entirety of Beleriand in the process). I think that says something about Galadriel's pragmatism. She is not one for clinging to false hope.

But the big question in my mind is why does Tolkien have the Company pass through Lórien before sending them down the Great River and to the confrontation between Frodo and Boromir that by this point is obviously coming up quickly? Did he just want to show off another Elvish kingdom? One of the most important moments in this chapter is when Galadriel mentally tests each member of the Company, and here more seeds are planted in Boromir's mind that will eventually lead to the breaking of the Fellowship. Does Galadriel's test push Boromir over the edge? It's interesting to speculate about whether Boromir would still be driven to do what he does even without Galadriel prompting him a little bit, with ideas about the salvation of Gondor. Galadriel's not all roses and moonbeams; I can easily interpret Aragorn's rebuttal of Boromir's distrust (that no evil is in Lórien except that which a person brings with them) to mean that Galadriel's magic magnifies and eventually exposes the evil within a person. Perhaps that is what happened here. I'm sure I'll talk more about Boromir and his motivations in the final chapter of "Fellowship." In any event, the test is very disturbing to most members of the Company.

On the other hand, Galadriel is a wonderful voice for understanding between the Elves and Gimli. When Celeborn expresses his wish that Gimli should have been refused entrance into Lórien had he known about the evil that the Dwarves had awoken in the mountains, Galadriel gently reproves him and reminds him about the beauty possessed and admired by the Dwarves. I dislike the word "tolerance," so I don't think that's what Galadriel is communicating here, but she is certainly able to place herself in the shoes of the Dwarves and understands what makes them tick. I also love the line about Gimli's dawning comprehension of the better path that Galadriel is offering, which is certainly the catalyst for Gimli and Legolas' future friendship: "…it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer." Gimli is surprised by the offer of reconciliation but then immediately accepts it.

The magic of the Elves and specifically Galadriel's power over the land and people of Lórien, is what permeates this chapter. Sam's comment about how "there's Elves and Elves" is quite on the nose -- Galadriel is quite a different sort of Elf from, say, Haldir or even Legolas, who have never known anything but Middle-earth and have no sense of connection to Valinor beyond a vague longing for the Sea (which rises in Legolas as the books progress). I'll talk more about Galadriel's connection to Valinor in the next chapter, where it really comes to the forefront, but she is set apart from the rank-and-file Elf of Lórien very distinctly. Frodo can feel the power pulsing through Lórien, generated by Galadriel and her Ring of Power; Sam not so much.

Finally, the titular "Mirror" of the chapter. What is this strange magical object, that presents visions of past, present, and future, scenes desired by those that look into the Mirror but also scenes unbidden and unrequested by either Galadriel or the person looking? As with so many things with Tolkien's magic, the Mirror resembles ancient magic tropes like scrying, but is so completely unexplained as to be wholly opaque.

I find it fascinating that Galadriel was looking forward to and anticipating the "test" placed before her by Frodo. She makes it sound like she was eagerly hoping it would be given to her. Why? Likely, deep down, Galadriel finds the promise of absolute power alluring. Who among us would not? Who among us doesn't smile a little bit at the thought of being absolutely loved and absolutely feared by everyone? But I think Galadriel wants to be presented with this test because she wants to prove to herself that she can pass it. That she is content -- or if not content, than accepting of the fact -- that she will "diminish, pass into the West, and remain Galadriel."

Part of Galadriel's acceptance goes back to that pragmatism that I mentioned earlier. The Elves -- or at least the Wise (like true elitists, they seem to keep a lot back from regular shmoes like Haldir) -- are very aware that the ages of Elvish dominance are over. In Tolkien's legendarium, the "Music" of Illúvitar (the god-figure) gives a season to everything and everything in its season. The Elves had their time, and it is passing, and the Age of Men is nearing. With that comes the lessening of Galadriel's power; even at this point, it does not extend past the borders of Lórien itself (similar to Tolkien's concept that these powerful beings are about to designate the boundaries of their power, but are all but powerless outside those borders, a la Tom Bombadil outside the Old Forest or Sauron both magnifying and confining his power with the Ring).

And second, Tolkien has made (most of) his Elves inherently good. Galadriel, as exhibited by the compassion she shows to Gimli in this chapter, believes in acting for the greater good. She knows that the destruction of Sauron will free Men from his oppression. It's interesting that in this chapter, Frodo and Galadriel both wish for things that would result in great harm: Frodo that Galadriel would take the Ring, and Galadriel that the Ring had never been found (which would have resulted in Sauron's unchecked expansion). But ultimately they both understand what they must do to benefit the greater good. In Galadriel's case, she knows that the destruction of the Ring will hasten the waning of the Elves' power; they placed so much of their power (or so we are told; I've never really understood the how or why of this) into the creation of the Three Rings, and with the destruction of the One Ring, the Master Ring, comes the destruction of the power of all the other rings as well. But despite that fact, she chooses to support the Quest instead of clinging to her slowly fading power in Middle-earth.

Isn't this a lesson that so many of us could benefit from? I'm certainly guilty of clinging to the past from time to time at the expense of the present.

"Farewell to Lórien" - Jacob's Thoughts

For the first half of this chapter, I worried that Tolkien had fallen back into old habits, indulging in that same, dull wheel-spinning that dragged down so many of the middle-chapters of Book 1.  Part of it is all that discussion of cram and fine elvin rope; I hadn't cared before how the Fellowship was provisioned (it's not like Tolkien had cared before either), and I wasn't about to start now.  (The most boring chapter in Moby Dick is also about getting rope).

Moreover, as Aragorn and Borimor et al argued inconclusively about where to go next, I began to worry that Tolkien didn't know at the time either, that he was making this all up on the fly.  Maybe I had been spoiled by so many solid chapters in a row, but "Farewell to Lórien" felt like a misstep.

Or maybe I just hate long goodbyes, and that's exactly what "Farewell to Lórien" is--and despite the wonderful "Mirror of Galadriel" chapter, I didn't feel like we spent enough time in Lórien for us to feel all that invested in this grand au revoir. (Besides, what is this, the third time they had to say goodbye to somewhere nice?  After the Shire and Rivendell, the trope begins to wear thin).

But by the end of the chapter, I had warmed up to it.  Part of it were the touches of character development and foreshadowing: here Frodo (and the reader) first gets the sense that Borimor is not quite as deferential and bland a traveling companion as he has seemed so far, that he never actually took his eye of the Ring, that there is in fact some dissemination hidden within the ranks of the Fellowship; here Gimli allows himself some genuine vulnerability, grace, and courage in humbly begging a strand of hair from the Lady Galadriel, which elevates him from mere "obligatory generic Dwarf no. 473" to an actual person with hidden depths and a real personality, someone I might want to get to know better; and here, Aragorn receives a brooch which, while seemingly little more than an old heirloom, seems to lift the burden of "many years" from his countenance.  This is all Hemingway's ice-berg theory at its best (I had to give a class presentation on Ernest Hemingway's debut In Our Time this week, so the ice-berg theory--that 7/8ths of the story should be hidden beneath the surface--has been on my mind a lot lately). 

If we wanted to get all Campbellian-Hero-Cycle here, this chapter is where the hero receives the "supernatural boon" before the great confrontation.  As such, Frodo's reception from Galadriel of a light that will shine in his darkest hour implies that this darkest hour is fast closing in.  And indeed, for the first time in this journey, our heroes here have begun to discuss Mordor as a place they may actually approach soon--that is, for the first time, Mordor feels real.  Already Tolkien is setting us up for the next book, which, based on the thinness of the pages remaining in my right hand, is also fast approaching.

In fact, not only is Tolkien already setting us up for the final approach to Mordor, but for post-Mordor, intriguingly.  For the Lady Galadriel's gift to Sam is a patch of dirt from Lórien.  She straight up admits will this boon not help him keep the right road nor protect him on his journey, but is instead to help his garden flourish and bloom if/when he ever gets home.  Now, she explicitly does not promise him that he will ever get to go home ("all foretelling is now vain")--nor does she promise that the Shire won't be a barren, scorched wasteland if he does--only that he will be able to grow again.  It's a small hope maybe, but in this ever-enclosing darkness, it's an encouraging one.

"Lothlórien" - Eric's Thoughts

One thing I get to do when writing this blog is brag about it. Whenever someone complains about not being able to keep in touch with old friends, I explain this blog to them, and they say, "Wow, that's a great idea, I should do that!" I'm guessing they never do it, so kudos to you guys for keeping up with it. Kudos to me too. I'll keep this post short so I can move on to Mirror, which I think is a more interesting chapter.

Lothlorien is a pause chapter, where Tolkien slows things down after the suspense of Moria.

What's interesting is that Tolkien still maintains tension throughout, by singling out the dwarf for a blindfold, and by keeping the orcs in pursuit. It goes to show that adding a ticking time bomb to any prose makes it more interesting. The orcs running underground shows that the escape would have failed if the elves hadn't intervened. And of course Gollum is following, which is obvious to the reader by now for those who had read the Hobbit.

The elves singling out Gimli made for the best scene in the chapter. Legolas curses the stiff necks of dwarves, only to find himself being put in the same shoes as Gimli. Legolas objects, and Aragon quips its now the stiff-necks of elves that is causing delay. Aragon shows wisdom in resolving the conflict, and singling out no one. Haldir notes that the power of separation is derived from the ability to sow mistrust among allies. Yet Haldir still decides to follow the law and treat them like enemies. An unsettling thought.

"Lothlórien" - Ben's Thoughts

While not much actually happens in this chapter, it does allow for rumination on a number of different important subjects. It's a nice pause after the excitement of Moria.

I won't go into Gandalf's passing too much, as Jacob already covered it to a large extent. It's interesting that Aragorn really gives the Company no time to grieve at all, and Tolkien doesn't really dwell on it, either. If I recall correctly, there's more on the subject in later chapters, but here it is glossed over very quickly. That's too bad, seeing that this moment from the movie is one of the very best additions (and probably one of the best scenes from all three films). I also not that Aragorn's "We must do without hope" is a very bleak line. Aragorn really thinks there is no hope in this war. It's interesting, however, that the chapter is bookended by Aragorn's thoughts on hope -- here he denies it, but at the end, when he is wrapped up in his memories of Arwen ("For the grim years were removed from the face of Aragorn, and he seemed clothed in white, a young lord tall and fair; and he spoke words in the Elvish tongue to one whom Frodo could not see" -- a lovely description), he seems reminded of why he is fighting this war, despite the bleak outlook.

A few thoughts about the Elves. First, we have the answer to Jacob's question about the language all the characters are speaking, right here in the text of the chapter: it is called "Westron," the common tongue of Middle-earth. This language is derived from the Adûnaic language, the native tongue of the Men of Númenor. Apparently Westron is something of a creole adapted from Adûnaic and the other tongues of the West. By this point in the Third Age only the learned would speak anything but Westron; Pippin and Merry, for example, will have no trouble understanding the Rohirrim or the men of Gondor in the later books. It is fun to note that Tolkien even saw the test of LOTR as a "translation" of Westron; supposedly Bilbo and Frodo's names in Westron ended in "a" sounds (i.e., "Bilba" and "Froda"), but these had to be "translated" as "Bilbo" and "Frodo" into English because names that end in "a" in our language are viewed as feminine. That Tolkien. Going above and beyond for the sake of worldbuilding.

We also get a bit more of an insight into Elvish society than we had previously. It's very interesting that Legolas is not familiar with the Elves of Lórien, and vice versa. Indeed, Haldir knows next to nothing about the world outside the immediate concerns of Lórien and the war Galadriel is engaged in with Dol Goldur. Galadriel's isolationist policy really keeps her people in the dark (although it doesn't seem to keep her from communicating with Elrond telepathically about the inbound Fellowship), and engenders Haldir's oddly hypocritical stance on trust and estrangement: "Indeed in nothing is the power of the Dark Lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him," he says. Yet "…we dare not by our own trust endanger our land." How does that make sense? It sounds like Sauron has already succeeded, to me. Galadriel is clearly more of a pragmatist than Elrond, who made all of those speeches as the Fellowship was leaving Rivendell about agency and destiny, not to mention his symbolic choices about the makeup and number of the Company. It's nice to see diversity of opinion between the Lords of the Noldor.

Which of course takes me back to The Silmarillion -- while they mostly display a unified front in LOTR, Elves have a very fractious history. The divisions between Thranduil's kingdom of Mirkwood and Galadriel's kingdom of Lórien are wide indeed. First and foremost, Thranduil is a Sindar, from a line hailing from Doriath -- made up of Elves who did not journey over the Sea to the West in the Ages before the First Age. Meanwhile, Galadriel is quite possibly the oldest living Elf in Middle-earth -- she is a Noldor, was born in Valinor, and traveled to Middle-Earth with Feänor before the First Age. By this time the Elves have mostly overcome the differences between the different (ethnic?) groups, which is a good thing because it seemed like they were killing each other all the time in The Silmarillion. It also raises interesting class issues, as the Noldor lord it over the Úmayar Sindar and Nandor Elves that make up most of the population of (certainly) Legolas' people and (most likely) the Elves of Lórien as well. Peter Jackson makes something of these class issues in the new Hobbit "adaptation" (I use scare quotes because it is a very loose adaptation indeed), even though Tolkien leaves it entirely out of LOTR. Maybe that's a good thing. Elvish politics and class issues would probably muddy up the clear narrative that we have here.

A few miscellaneous notes. I don't think I've ever noticed before that the Elves monitored a "great troop of orcs" entering Moria at the eastern gate some months back. What was that all about? Sauron's delegation to the Balrog? Just Sauron stirring up trouble? Or perhaps Sauron's anticipation of Gandalf and Co. going into the Mines? It certainly lends itself to the idea that Gandalf was fated to fall in Moria, and that Sauron's will was driving the Company to enter the place. An interesting piece of evidence to Sauron's perception of Gandalf's travels.

Next, on Frodo - his "sixth sense" of danger seems to have developed considerably. Frodo feels uneasy long after the orcs have gone, which of course signals the approach of Gollum. I will continue to be on the lookout for other evidence of superpowers from Frodo, although it may be fewer and farther between in later books; as I recall Books IV and VI are mostly from Sam's point of view. Surely this sixth sense isn't a lingering effect from Frodo's dagger-wound -- how would being turned into a wraith have helped him sense Gollum, who is a different kind of beast altogether from the orcs? I'm just not sure what to make of Frodo's extrasensory abilities. Thoughts, anyone?

Frodo also experiences a certain "rapture in nature" moment there on Cerin Amroth. It's clear that Tolkien has a great love for woods and forests. However, while these are beautiful places, they bear no great resonance for me -- I love the mountains. As a result, Tolkien's waxing rhapsodic about the woods and hills of Lórien falls a little flat for me; being confined in woods will always feel subtly oppressive to me, no matter how beautiful. Give me mountains, grand vistas, any day. That's what really gets my blood moving.

I wanted to close with a comment on Frodo and Gimli's experience at Kheled-zâram, the "Mirror-mere." They gaze into the pool, and Gimli doesn't repeat what he sees other than the "crown of Durin," but Frodo believes that he sees lights shining in the depths of the pool that could not be reflected from the mountains above. What is all that about? What was Tolkien trying to convey by having his characters enjoy this experience?

On one level, it ties into the sense of glory lost, civilization crumbled, that pervades LOTR so deeply. The Elves, with Haldir as their spokesman in this chapter, believe that their day has passed and they will never again attain the beauty of the past; that all that is left for them is to pass into the West (and Haldir, interestingly enough, seems to be deeply skeptical about what awaits them there). The Dwarves, on the other hand, seem to have a far brighter outlook on things. While Gimli recognizes that their civilization has fallen from greater heights, he believes that his leader (prophet? god-figure?) Durin will return someday, and with him the glory of Dwarven civilization -- Durin is literally reborn, he comes again. Given that belief, the Mirror-mere (an interesting name, given the "Mirror of Galadriel" we will encounter in the next chapter) reflects a promise that is essentially a religious experience. Gimli says he wants to see the "wonder of the dale," but what he is looking for in the pool is  spiritual confirmation that his Messiah-figure Durin will return.

The Dwarves seem to believe that what has been lost can be reclaimed, even if it is not always in the same way. Is this belief at odds with the message we will encounter at the end of the book that what is broken (Frodo's peace) cannot be mended, although joy and peace can ultimately be found, in some form or another, in places we did not at first expect (perhaps in death or the afterlife)? I'm not sure. I tend to lean more in the direction of Frodo, in that I feel like sublime experiences will never be recaptured in the same way twice in one lifetime. But wouldn't it be nice to think so? I guess that makes Gimli the optimist in the Company.

All in all, a very interesting chapter. A nice contrast from the frenetic energy and masterful action of Moria. Let's see if the rest of the "Lórien" chapters hold up to snuff.

"The Bridge of Khazad-dûm" - Ben's Thoughts

Doom is the word to use here, isn't it? From everything I know, the "û" is pronounced with the long "oo", making the word embedded in the chapter title itself.

A few quick matters before we get to the meat and potatoes of the chapter: Gandalf and the Balrog. The fight in the Chamber of Mazarbul is quite the example of a powerful but understated fight sequence. The Orcs do seem quite scary, even if they are just faceless mooks, and something about the "flat, toeless foot" of the troll is quite evocative as well. (Although it seems quite the cowardly troll to run off after just a little slash to the foot.) It's interesting to note that Tolkien again provides no description of Gandalf in combat (a far cry from the films, to be sure). I'll have to pay careful attention to Gandalf's sword-and-sorcery abilities after he returns as Gandalf the White in the next book. It seems that here he limits himself to the magical bolstering that is both his mission as a Maia to Middle-earth and the capacity of his Ring of Power that is carried with him unbeknownst to the rest of the company (or is it? I wonder if Aragorn was aware of that secret of Gandalf's).

The story of the Dwarves is very horrible. Again Tolkien manages to convey a lot by saying very little. Perhaps this "slashed book" tactic of telling very little and letting the readers fill in the gaps is the precursor of the "found footage" horror movies that are a dime a dozen today? "The Watcher in the Water took Óin" is one of the most horrible lines so far, both because we know Óin from The Hobbit, and because we know the Watcher from the last chapter. It's an old but powerful literary device to state things simply and allow the reader to fill in everything; thus we can imagine the defeated Dwarves, attempting to retreat up to the Eregion gate, only to find this horrible pool of water right on the doorstep and a Lovecraftian monster inside of it that eats one of the group when they try to ford the lake. Caught between the Watcher and the orcs inside; I don't know what I'd choose, but I suppose the Dwarves went with the orcs; in any case they returned to tell what had happened on that side of the Mines. "Valiant but foolish" is what Gandalf calls Balin's expedition. I think that sums it up nicely. Balin from The Hobbit never comes across as ambitious, but it would take a certain foolhardy ambition to ask Dáin, one of the only Dwarves who seemed to perceive the true evil hidden in Moria (see Appendix A), to take a group there to try and retake the Mines, when there have been no Dwarves in Moria because of the Balrog for hundreds (thousands?) of years.

Of course the big focus in the chapter is on the balrog, the monster that launched a thousand D&D campaigns. The giant demon-monster of the films has been so ingrained into my mind, that it's almost shocking to see how vaguely it is described in the books. Its first appearance in the Chamber after the Fellowship exits is interesting for several reasons, not least of which is the fact that it fits in the chamber at all. Just how big or small is this thing? Can it change its shape at will? Tolkien's descriptions of it seem almost fluid, and it makes one think of how powerful Maia in The Silmarillion often changed their physical forms when they needed to adapt to a different situation or needed to present themselves to weak-minded mortals in a different way. After all, the balrog is a Maia -- a fire-spirit likely in service to Aulë. Tolkien waffled on how many balrogs there were supposed to have been; in the The Silmarillion it is conveyed that they exist in large numbers, and in extant notes it is stated that there were alternatively only seven and huge numbers (even thousands). In any case, it's likely that the balrog here (goofily called "Durin's Bane" in Tolkien fandom) has a greater overt power than Gandalf, who is also a Maia (wielding one of the Three Rings, let us not forget) but who was in service to Nienna, a Vala who concerned herself with grief, mourning, and inner strength (which jives quite nicely with Gandalf's mission to inspire courage throughout Middle-earth in the face of Sauron's destructive power).

That mention of Sauron leads me to wonder what the balrog thought of Sauron? There's certainly no link between them; I'm sure Sauron would have loved to have had a balrog at his command, but this one seems content to relax in Moria and kill all passers-by and has no interest in exiting his lair to rain destruction on Sauron's enemies. If the Wise (the Istari and the leaders of the Elves) were aware or had suspicions of what had caused the destruction of the Dwarves in Moria, surely Sauron would have as well? (Although on second thought, it seems that Gandalf had only suspicions -- he exclaims "Now I understand" when he finally sees the monster.) In any case, the balrog would likely not want to bend its will to Morgoth's lowly lieutenant -- the balrogs were often described as Morgoth's personal guard, whereas Sauron was just another henchman who in the Third Age exalts himself in a measure greater than any could have foreseen. This duality between the evils of the balrog and Sauron are interesting -- one demands expansion, conquest, and subjugation, while the other slumbers until disturbed, and then surges forth with terrible force, but within the limits of its domain.

Anyway, back to the balrog in the chamber. I've always found it interesting how Gandalf can sense it in the chamber, how the balrog then "perceives" Gandalf and his spell, and how it then casts a counter-spell. Not only does this indicate that the balrog is more of an active force with a malevolent will of its own, rather than a chaotic force of nature, but it hints at a magic system existing beyond Tolkien's non-delineated supernatural powers possessed by Gandalf and other Maia. In this day and age of almost-too-clearly defined systems, there is something to be said for the mystery and ambiguity on display here. I suppose since we are never in Gandalf's head, it makes sense that we never know exactly how he does things. On the other hand it frustrates me to no end that there seem to be no rules on how things work.

Then the balrog appears at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. It is described as a "man-shape maybe, yet greater." This makes me think it is simply the size of a man, but then Tolkien describes it swelling in size, or perhaps just of power, and that its "wings" (possibly just wings of shadow) stretch from wall to wall. I dunno, somehow I like the idea of a great power emanating from a smaller, man-sized figure. The balrog is such a compelling adversary perhaps because Tolkien leaves its description vague. It doesn't speak; it doesn't cackle or gloat. It doesn't even roar (like it does in the movie). It is silent and unspeakably malevolent.

Two final points. First, Aragorn immediately seizes the mantle of leadership after Gandalf's fall. "Come, I will lead you now," is one of the most powerful moments in the book for me, because it is done without hesitation. He almost knew what would happen and he was prepared. There is no doubt who the new leader will be; unless I'm forgetting something, Boromir does not even try to challenge Aragorn's knowledge and expertise in the next chapter. Aragorn finishes out the chapter with a bang ("Aragorn smote to the ground the [orc] captain that stood in his path, and the rest fled in terror of his wrath") and marks a transition point in the book as well. From this point on, he will go through a dynamic shift in character that is one of the best in LOTR.

Finally, Gandalf's fall. I don't have much to say that hasn't already been said, but I feel that "Fellowship" is probably the best of the three books because it deals with loss. Frodo's loss of the Shire, Boromir's spiral into madness, leaving Bilbo behind in Rivendell, and of course Gandalf's sacrifice. It brings home to the reader that there is real and great cost to this Quest. I almost feel like bringing Gandalf back not even a book later cheapens his death here, and I wonder why Tolkien wanted to bring him back and whether the book would have been better without him. I dunno. I'll probably address it more in "Two Towers." The chapter places a finality on the loss with the final words: "the drum-beats faded." What a great way to end the chapter.

"The Mirror of Galadriel" - Jacob's Thoughts

I feel as though Celeborn could've been speaking on behalf of Eric when he lamented, "one would say that at last Gandalf fell from wisdom into folly, going needlessly into the net of Moria."

But then I also feel that Tolkien responds directly to Eric (and other such critical readers) through the Lady Galadriel's rejoinder: "He would be rash indeed that said such a thing...Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life.  Those that followed him knew not his mind and cannot report his full purpose."

This statement is effective at inaugurating the aura of mystery that permeates both this realm of Lothlórien and the chapter itself.  For only the second time this novel, Frodo has another cryptic vision of the Ocean that he's never seen before (I had in fact forgotten about his first one in "A Conspiracy Unmasked," even though I'd written about it--and I hadn't realized that this would be a repeating dream; I'm please Tolkien hasn't forgotten the Sea); we also get our first hint that Gandalf is not as irrevocably lost as we assumed for the last 2 chapter, though Tolkien wisely keeps it ambiguous as to whether Frodo sees Gandalf or the more nefarious Saruman; and as though to further worry us about the dark forebodings about these visions, we get what I believe is our very first ever glimpse of the eye of Sauron.

Among the more controversial moves of the Peter Jackson films is his introduction of the physical presence of Sauron right from the get go, keeping him constantly foregrounded throughout the rest of the series.  Far more effective, I think, is Tolkien's choice to not provide any sort of image of the chief antagonist until we are well over three-quarters our way through the first novel.  Our imaginations can thereby run wild, creating something far more terrifying than any words could describe.  Since Sauron is so much a creature of our worst nightmares, it makes sense that his first genuine appearance should arrive in such a dream-like setting, and pop up in such an unexpectedly dream-like manner.

And then what an introduction!  A single eye emerging from the darkness, rimmed with fire, a feline yellow like some inhuman predator, like something straight out of the darkest recesses of our subconscious, looking, hunting, for you specifically!  The water itself bubbles and smokes, and the ring becomes heavy, reminding us again of its own wicked agency, and almost reaches out for its Dark Master right there and then!  We're not entirely sure that Frodo and Sam aren't all just dreaming this sequence (they had just barely lied down to sleep when Galadriel bid them follow), but that doesn't distract from its terror--in fact, it only augments it.  This is the sort of scene that is normally written on a bad drug trip, or after a fitful night's sleep.

Then comes the "test" of Galadriel, which I was surprised that, with the exception of the co-presence of Sam, goes down exactly as the film presents it.  But then, it shouldn't have been a surprise, for it's a very cinematic scene, deeply impactful and almost more frightening than the appearance of the eye of Sauron.  What I'm a little more baffled by, then, is what, exactly, are the parameters of this "test."  I mean, I understand that the Ring corrupts whoever owns it, even those with the best of intentions, so I'm glad that she resisted the awful temptation (and her line "All shall love me and despair!" is almost more frightening, in a BDSM sorta way, than Sauron, who merely demands your submission, not your adoration too!).  But why, exactly, must the elves "diminish" with the destruction of the Ring?  Why is this a Catch-22 for the elves between domination and exile?  What ancient Faustian deal did they make that resulted in their fates on Middle-Earth being tied to the Ring's existence?  I confess that I'm confused as to this particular plot point.  Can either of you explain it to me?

Likewise intriguing is Galadriel's statement that the elves will not submit to Sauron "for they know him now," implying that they didn't before, and didn't for awhile.  Now that Sauron has made his first real appearance, I admit that I'm all the more intrigued with him now: was he some sort of "devil appearing as an angel of light" in some earlier era?  Before he became Nightmarish Oppression personified, was he a smooth-talker?  A sales-man?  Charming?  Handsome?  Likeable? A disimulator who conquered through seduction and a silver-tongue?  Why didn't the wise old elves know him for what he was at first?  Was he just that smooth before he finally cast off his disguise and revealed himself for the devil he really is?  Suddenly Sauron isn't just a "Generic Boss Character" to defeat anymore, but a real being with a real past and a real personality.  It's almost with sadness that I realize this series probably won't answer any more of my questions about him.

"The Bridge of Khazad-dûm" - Eric's Thoughts

Ok, so I said the last chapter was good, but this is a masterful chapter. It's the chapter where Gandalf dies, confronting the Balrog on the bridge.

It’s for chapters like these that we read books. Let’s break down what Tolkien is doing.

The chapter begins with momentum from a cliffhanger of a previous chapter, Balin’s death. Gandalf finds an old book with haunting fragments, describing Balin’s expedition into the mines. The expedition did not fare well, and the burnt out words and lack of clarity as to what went wrong makes the scene more eerie. It's a classic trope, but done really well here. The book foreshadows drums, and ends with the forlorn line, “We cannot get out, we cannot get out.”

Notice the language that Tolkien uses in creating his world: he references in the book specific halls that give the illusion that there is more to Moria than just the scenes described thus far. It’s little snippets like these that allow novels to have depth that go outside what the characters are actually experiencing, and make a book three dimensional. (Note that while the LOTR world-building is three-dimensional, the characters in LOTR so far are not three dimensional. At least not yet. So far we’ve had little thought from any character, and each of the Company are little more than caricatures. The only character so far with any semblance of depth is probably Strider, and the character of Gandalf is well-done, though two-dimensional, in his role as the wise wizard. Feel free to chime in Jacob and Ben whether you think I’m wrong about this.) 

In this chapter, I found myself wanting to read on, even knowing what happened. Unfortunately I don’t remember what I was thinking or feeling the first time I read this chapter. My experience this time was one of awe at how well the chapter was done.

So you’ll never guess what happens next. As foreshadowed in the book Gandalf finds, drums begin to beat, and Gandalf growls that they shouldn’t have been reading a book. One of the Company members suggests running, but Tolkien rules that possibility out by telling the reader the Company needs to stay and fight in the tomb (Gandalf notes that it would serve no purpose to flee into the darkness, although later that’s exactly what they do.)

A battle occurs next, which is very simplistic in its language. Orc heads are cleaved, arrows whine, and even Sam gets a kill, though is bleeding from a nasty scrape in the head. There are not blow-by-blow accounts here, and the scene is no less compelling for it. This is also where Bilbo’s gift comes into play, where an orc chieftain rams his spear into Frodo. Everyone thinks Frodo is dead. But Frodo declares himself not dead, and Gandalf notes that there is more to Frodo than meets the eye, like Bilbo. (A very Gandalf line that references the first book, and is a nice touch of consistent characterization.) I anxiously then was waiting for Aragon’s movie line, “That thrust would have skewered a wild boar,” and it did not happen until way after when the Company leaves Balin’s tomb and goes into the next chapter safely (Lothlorien). When it wasn’t said at first, I was actually disappointed, because I thought it was a good line. But lo and behold, when the Company is out of Balin’s tomb, Aragon says it in the Lothlorien chapter, and I was made whole.

Gandalf’s first confrontation with the Balrog happens offstage, and Gandalf describes that he was almost “destroyed.” How well done was that? This is the difference between a professional writer and an amateur, knowing what scenes to tell and what scenes to put in action, and what sequence to put them in. An often heard guideline for writers is to “show, don’t tell.” This is something that high school teachers teach without actually knowing what it means. In fact, high school teachers, and college professors, often get it wrong. Telling is actually a critical tool for a writer. There is nothing more important than the phrase, “Three days passed without event.” Guess why? Because otherwise scenes drag out without event, and the story becomes dull. One of the most difficult parts of writing is knowing what to show and what to tell. Now, maybe Tolkien could have written an okay scene from Gandalf’s perspective fighting, and then stagger back to the Company, but the scene becomes much more compelling when told from Company’s perspective: their leader, beaten and tired, growling that he needs to rest if all the orcs in Middle Earth were after them. (Gandalf, apparently, as shown by his short temper on the matter, is not one that is used to defeat.)  The Company is left in suspense, as is the reader.  While in the movies there is a wizard’s duel earlier with Saruman where Gandalf gets a sound licking, in the books Gandalf was taken by Saruman by trickery than an outright confrontation of power. (By the way, I digress, but what the heck is up with the names Saruman and Sauron? Tolkien really dropped the ball there. Soooo confusing to readers. I remember this confused me the first time I was reading the books, two powerful villains with such similar names.) So having Gandalf tell the confrontation, rather than experience it, is a very nice touch. Note that when Gandalf is telling the story, the scene is showing, so this isn’t necessarily a perfect example of knowing when to skip fluff with a simple sentence, but you know what I mean. I guess it’s a better example of sequencing, and how using a quick reverse-chrono switch you can create an even more compelling scene.

So then the Company runs, and crosses a narrow bridge that falls to infinity. And of course, it’s the iconic Gandalf confrontation with the Balrog. I’ve included all of the sentences I could find that describe the Balrog, which in the text is interspersed, so you can easily reference what language Tolkien is using to describe the beast. I think it gives a good example on how you want to use language to create imagery and dramatic suspense. It's clear that Tolkien uses a more classic (i.e. not modern) form of style to convey imagery, but it still works.

But it was not the trolls that had filled the Elf with terror. The ranks of the orcs had opened, and they crowded away, as if they themselves were afraid. Something was coming up behind them. What it was could not be seen: it was like a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater; and a power and terror seemed to be in it and to go before it. It came to the edge of the fire and the light faded as if a cloud had bent over it. Then with a rush it leaped across the fissure. The flames roared up to greet it, and wreathed about it; and a black smoke swirled in the air. Its streaming mane kindled, and blazed behind it. In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left it held a whip of many thongs.[. . .] The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. [. . .] His enemy halted again, facing him, and the shadow about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked. Fire came from its nostrils. [. . .] The Balrog made no answer. The fire in it seemed to die, but the darkness grew. It stepped forward slowly on to the bridge, and suddenly it drew itself up to a great height , and its wings were spread from wall to wall; but still Gandalf could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small, and altogether alone : grey and bent, like a wizened tree before the onset of a storm.

 [. . .]

With a terrible cry the Balrog fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard’s knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss . ‘Fly, you fools!’ he cried , and was gone.

It’s here that we leave the fairy-tale land of the Hobbit behind, and realize that there may not be a happy ending to this tale.